The Vogels: On All Fronts (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 2)

by Jana Petken

  “This is Biermann’s handiwork, isn’t it?” Paul finally asked.

  “Yes … he told his puppets to smash water glasses over my head.” Kurt grimaced again. “Got upset when one didn’t break … took three goes … I have a hard head, apparently.”

  Paul swallowed his disgust and set his lips into a hard line as he examined the bruised areas. “This is brutal, even for Biermann. It’s not the first time he’s beaten you, is it?” he added, noticing the yellowing bruises on Kurt’s chest.

  Paul pulled Kurt’s shirt down and then stood up. He saw himself as a gentle man, not prone to violence, but he was kicking himself for not letting Biermann die on the floor in the train station’s office.

  “Don’t take me with you, Paul,” Kurt mumbled. “Biermann will get to me no matter where I am. And I don’t want you involved in this mess.”

  “I’m already in this mess up to my armpits, Kurt. Trust me, he won’t be bothering you again. He has his own health problems, and you’re never coming back to this ghetto. I’ll bet my life on it.”

  Paul stared at Kurt’s battered features. He opened his mouth, shut it, then asked the question that had been uppermost in his mind since leaving the train station. “Biermann told me my father is alive. Is this true?”

  Kurt groaned as he tried to turn onto his side. “No. Your father is dead. He died in Berlin. Don’t believe a word that pig told you.”

  Paul gulped back a sob. “I should have known better than to trust that lying bastard.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  At the hospital, Paul accompanied the orderlies carrying Kurt on a stretcher to a ward on the second floor. As soon as Kurt was in bed, he dismissed the men and pulled the curtains around the bed for privacy. Aware that he was technically off-duty and should have handed Kurt over to the Jewish doctor in charge of the ward, he injected Kurt with the morphine he’d pilfered before going to the ghetto. Being the supervisory German doctor had its perks, one of which was the keys to the pharmacy. They had once been treasured by Leszek Lewandowski, the hospital director, but being Jewish, he’d been ordered to hand them over to the Wehrmacht’s hospital representative, Paul, a man far junior to the Pole in terms of experience, standing and age.

  Before leaving Kurt, Paul instructed the Jewish doctor not to go near the patient until his return. Paul planned to hand the case over to Anatol, which was against the rule of Christian doctors treating Jewish patients. Sod the rule. He wanted Anatol and a private room made available for Kurt, and he was no longer going to beg for anything. He was going to take what he needed from now on.

  Anatol stood near the Sister’s office and his eyes narrowed at Paul’s approach. “Why are you still here? Don’t you have a pregnant wife to go home to?”

  Paul, having taken the first step in his plan, including giving a shaky promise to Kurt, was determined to bring Anatol onside. “I’ve just admitted Karl Ellerich with serious injuries to his head and torso. He was badly beaten, and I’d like you to examine him before I go to see my father-in-law.”

  “Karl Ellerich? Am I supposed to know him?” Anatol then seemed to recall the name from their earlier discussion. “Ah, yes,” he whispered. “He’s the Jew who was in danger. I can’t treat him. You know the rules.”

  “To hell with them. I need you to assess him and get him into a private room where he won’t be supervised. The Gestapo tortured him today just as I thought they would. He has extensive bruising to his abdomen, numerous head injuries, and broken ribs. He was in agony, so I administered morphine, but no sulfa drugs yet. Will you help, please?”

  “Where did you get morphine? We were ordered to stop giving it to Jews weeks ago.”

  Paul whispered. “I told you, I can help you save lives. Now, will you help me before the Gestapo finish him off?”

  The two men strode towards Kurt’s ward, but Anatol’s evident nervousness was a concern. Paul placed his hand on the Pole’s arm, halting him abruptly. “Wait, Anatol, I need to be honest with you. I was going to bring Karl here using a false admission order. It’s been in my pocket all day. I intended to keep him here under false pretences until you and Hubert gave me your answer…”

  “You’re taking a hell of a risk, Doctor, and now you want me to get involved in some illegal scheme. I’ve told you before, I am not a Jew. I have my rights.” He hissed, jerking his arm away.

  “And I have my friend to consider.”

  Paul suspected that threats would only push the man further away. Anatol didn’t trust him but was intrigued enough to examine Kurt, and that was a step in the right direction. “Anatol, I’m not doing anything wrong, and neither are you. I had nothing to do with the beating he got this morning. In fact, I was looking for him at the deportation site to give him the admission slip. Not seeing him in Alexanderhofstrasse is the reason I went in search of him.”

  Again, Paul placed his hand on Anatol’s arm against his better judgement, and begged, “Please … please. Kurt will die if you don’t help him.”

  Anatol looked unimpressed as he shrugged Paul’s hand away and walked on. “I’ll evaluate the patient, Doctor Vogel, that’s all I’ll say.”

  Anatol examined Kurt’s injuries while a nurse took notes. He started with the head wounds and then gently prodded his abdomen while Kurt looked up at him, glassy-eyed.

  “I’m worried about internal bleeding,” Paul remarked.

  “I agree.” When Anatol had finished he sent the nurse to fetch an orderly with a trolley. “Say it’s urgent, nurse, and while you’re there, call the radiologist in from off-duty and tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

  The nurse raised her eyebrows. “But this is Doctor Bernstein’s patient, Doctor…”

  “Just do it. I’ll speak to Doctor Bernstein … and not a word to anyone about it, do you understand?”

  Kurt, relaxed under the morphine, was conscious enough to stammer, “Did you mean what you said about not going back to the ghetto? Did you mean it, Paul … Paul, did you?”

  “Yes, every word, Kurt. I told you I’d find you a way out.” Paul glanced at Anatol.

  Anatol hung his stethoscope around his neck, then ordered Paul to leave the ward.

  “I’ll be outside,” Paul said without objecting.

  Kurt searched Anatol’s face. “I have nothing to say.”

  “I only want to ask you a couple of questions about your relationship with Doctor Vogel? Is that all right?” Anatol asked.

  Kurt nodded.

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Long enough …years. He’s dedicated to medicine and he loves his family. He’s a good man, but he’s … I’m afraid he’s going to do … he might do something even more stupid here than he did in Germany.”

  Kurt, drifting off, muttered, “Protect Paul, Doctor. He should have got out.”

  Anatol shook Kurt’s shoulder. “Not yet. Who did this to you?”

  “Eh … who? The great man of course, the Kriminaldirektor and his thugs.” Kurt chuckled. “Shh … don’t tell him I called him great.”

  After pulling a blanket up to Kurt’s shoulders, Anatol went into the corridor.

  “Well?” Paul asked.

  “The first thing he needs before I even start treating him is the private room you suggested. He’s too vocal for his own good. I’ll clear out the storeroom on my ward and put a sign on the door. I’ll give him the tag of having a suspected contagious disease. That will keep that coward Lewandowski away from the entire floor. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending how one looks at it, I don’t have any patients. Christians don’t want to come here anymore, and who can blame them? I can see Hubert and myself being out of jobs soon, but that conversation is for another day. How much morphine did you give him?”

  “Thirty milligrams. Correct for his less than seventy kilograms of bodyweight. Enough to ease his pain.” Paul shrugged. “I might have been a bit heavy-handed. I’ll leave a vial with you. He’ll need more in the morning.”

  While
waiting for the orderly to collect Kurt, Paul and Anatol discussed the patient’s treatment. They had a couple of options but agreed that both were dependent on the X-ray results.

  Halfway through a conversation about how they were planning to keep Kurt’s presence a secret from Doctor Lewandowski, Anatol’s hand went into his coat pocket. “I hope to God I’m doing the right thing,” he said, pulling a folded piece of paper out and handing it to Paul. “Come alone to this address at nine o’clock on Thursday evening. The shifts change that day and the three of us will be off-duty at the same time – barring emergencies. My wife will make dinner and after we’ve eaten, Hubert and I will listen to you. I can’t promise anything, Paul, but we will listen.”

  Paul’s hopes soared. “Thank you, Anatol, you won’t regret it.”

  “That remains to be seen. In the meantime, don’t you make promises to your friend in there. You might not be able to keep them. Now, go home. I will take care of him.”

  Paul, reluctant to leave, repeated, “Don’t let anyone near him, especially the Gestapo.”

  “I think Doctor Lewandowski might have something to say about that. You don’t want to arouse his suspicion. He resents you being here.” Anatol started to walk away, but then spun around. “By the way, Hubert is now treating your father-in-law downstairs. Kriminaldirektor Biermann refused to have a Jewish physician. When you see Hubert, don’t mention your friend to him, not while he’s treating a Gestapo officer. And Doctor Vogel, one other thing…”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t come back up here for at least the next two days. If you do, you’ll draw unwanted attention to yourself and to Karl. When I finish, my nurse will take over his care until my return tomorrow. I trust her.”

  “I’m very grateful, Anatol.”

  “You should be. I am now taking major risks for you. I hope you keep your end of the bargain.”

  “I will, and more.”

  Paul went to the Aryan ward and found Biermann propped up in bed, dressed in a pair of hospital-issue striped pyjamas, the lower half of his face hidden under a mask attached to an oxygen cylinder.

  Biermann removed the mask from his face, and asked, “Sort these damn pillows out for me, will you?”

  “I’m glad to see you’re feeling a bit better, sir,” Paul said, plumping the pillows and placing them anew behind his father-in-law’s head.

  “I’ve been told I’ve got to rest for at least a month, but I won’t put up with half that time in bed. Mark my words, I’ll be back on my feet within a week or two.”

  “I don’t think you will,” Paul said with his doctor’s hat on. “You’ve had a heart attack…”

  “I know what I had.” He wheezed. “But don’t you think you’re off the hook just because I’m in here.”

  “You concentrate on getting better, sir.” Paul scowled, furious about everything that had happened that day, both at work and personally. One minute he’d been told his father was alive, then no more than a couple of hours later, Kurt had denied it. Who was telling the truth? It was too much. What kind of man played with another man’s mind by lying about something like that?

  “Did you hear me, Vogel?” Biermann asked.

  “Sorry, sir. What were you saying?”

  “I was saying, I’ll feel a lot better when you bring me Kurt Sommer’s confession. Three days, Paul. That’s all you’ve got.”

  Biermann was becoming breathless and closed his eyes. Paul lifted the mask onto his father-in-law’s face then made himself as comfortable as he could. What to do next? It was Sunday, and the meeting with Anatol and Hubert wasn’t until the following Thursday evening. A lot could happen to Kurt in those four days.

  He looked out the side ward door leading to the Sister’s station and hallway beyond; no one was milling about. He rose, closed the door and then returned to the hard chair by the bed. He wouldn’t shed any tears for Biermann should he die, and he wouldn’t feel a gram of guilt for hoping he would. As a doctor, he’d buried his Hippocratic Oath at Brandenburg. The age-old pledge, spoken by the greatest medical minds since the age of the Greeks, had become a wishy-washy promise that German doctors in occupied Europe often ignored – more often, they were under orders that were contrary to its philosophy. He included himself in that group of medical professionals; shame on him.

  He knew every word of the Oath, and its prayer to its mythical witnesses: Apollo the Physician, Asclepius, Hygieia, Panaceia, and all the gods and goddesses. It was a simple, comprehensive agreement in which doctors stated that they’d apply all known medical and ethical measures for the benefit of the sick according to one’s ability and judgement, and more pointedly, to keep them from harm and injustice. Paul, having broken his oath time and again, often contemplated whether he still deserved the title of physician.

  He listened to the hissing sound from the oxygen cylinder and felt an overwhelming urge to rip the mask off Biermann’s face and interrogate him; instead, he got up, double-checked the door was closed and no one was about, and then gently lifted the mask. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I can’t stop thinking about my father.”

  “Eh – eh? We’ll talk in the morning.” Biermann yawned, then seemed to change his mind. “What – well, what about him?”

  Paul sat close to Biermann on the edge of the bed. “You said before you took ill that my father was alive, and a traitor. That’s a very serious accusation to make and I think I deserve an explanation.”

  Biermann’s expression soured again. “Not yet, you don’t. I’ll tell you when I have everything I need.”

  “Yes, I understand, but the problem with that is I don’t see how I can get Kurt Sommer to confess if I don’t know what I’m asking him to confess to.”

  Biermann glared.

  “You used the word treason against your dearest friend – my father. I am grieving his loss, so if what you say is true, give me proof.”

  “He was my closest friend, and now he is the traitor who betrayed his country,” Biermann spat. “He lied and connived behind my back, and I was the fool who gave him information on my investigations as I would to my closest confidant. I trusted him implicitly, and when I thought he’d died, I did everything in my power to help your mother, you, and Wilmot. His betrayal stings like a septic wound.”

  Paul, losing his patience, roughly replaced the mask over Biermann’s mouth. Still no proof. He was getting tired of his father-in-law’s repeated rhetoric of hurt, betrayal, and self-pity. “That’s it, sir, relax your breathing – in, out – in, out.”

  When he’d pulled the mask down to the edge of his chin once more, Biermann muttered in a tired voice, “I am not asking you to help me. I am ordering you to get the information I need against your father and his accomplice, Kurt Sommers. My power stretches all the way to the Reich Security Office in Berlin, Paul, and if you don’t do as I ask, I will see you prosecuted as a co-conspirator, along with your father and Wilmot. And when I do, you will be saying goodbye to your wife.” Biermann wheezed. “Put the mask on properly, then leave … go on … get out.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Max Vogel and Romek Gabula

  Somewhere in the North Sea

  3 April 1942

  The Grimsby fishing trawler carrying Max, Romek, a Royal Navy lieutenant, and two RN ratings shadowed the minesweeper until it reached the pre-arranged coordinates in the North Sea. There, after Max had confirmed by radio that the naval vessel was heading back to shore, he ordered the lieutenant to bring the trawler to a full stop.

  Max swept the horizon through his binoculars from the trawler’s port side, saw nothing, and then went to the starboard deck to repeat his observations. They had reached their destination two hours ahead of time and had no reason to think the U-boat, being in enemy waters, would appear until the designated hour.

  The sea, while having a light swell, was reasonably calm this spring night. The boat was not being tossed about or hit by too much spray, giving the men good visibility with clear skies and a
full moon. More importantly, the lieutenant was confident he could maintain the boat’s position and control its drift.

  Despite the comparative calm, Romek proved to be a bad sailor, vomiting twice over the side of the boat while groaning that he hated England. Max, needing the Pole to be in good form, had taken him into the cramped cabin where the former continued to moan about his misery from a bench seat that rocked like a hammock.

  “Never again – don’t ever ask me to get on a boat again – you hear me, Max? Never.”

  Max chuckled at Romek’s screwed-up face and his arms clutching his stomach. “Well, well, well, the great Romek Gabula has a vulnerability after all, and here’s me thinking you were invincible.”

  “Shut up,” Romek said, throwing up again in the fire bucket at his feet.

  The trawler’s skipper, a naval lieutenant who for the purposes of the mission went by his Christian name of Patrick, poked his head into the cabin, and said, “Flashes – sixty metres off our port side, sir. The conning tower breached the surface a few minutes ago.”

  “At last. Before you go, Patrick, don’t let me hear you say sir again until this is over.” Max eyed Romek lying half on and half off the narrow bench seat. “Get up, Romek. I need you now.”

  The sailors were leaning against the side of the boat near the stern where a pile of nets lay. Max sauntered to them, then stood with his back to the port side. “There’s a German naval officer on that sub over there who has probably had us in his sights since the moment the boat surfaced. The Krauts will also have spotters sweeping the sea and sky ready to dive at the first sign of threat from us or elsewhere. Play your parts well, and if the German speaks to you, use your Irish slang but don’t overact. He’s an intelligence officer and will sniff out a lie from a hundred feet.”

  When Romek appeared, Max handed him the binoculars. “Take a look. You’re in charge now.” Then he addressed the lieutenant, “Do you have the automatic rifle and pistols at the ready?”